


Five Kisses For Victor

by Mazarin221b



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Kiss, Growing Up, M/M, Marriage, Past Relationships, Victor gets a puppy, Zine piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 16:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14697600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: Five kisses that melt Victor's heart, bit by tiny bit.Victor Nikiforov is twelve years old,  body steeped in cold from the moment he wakes until the time he sleeps; it’s settled into his soul so deeply he wonders if his platinum hair is a gift from the witch who bestowed the talent of twisting his body into complex and beautiful poses on the ice, a reminder that no matter where he goes the ice will never leave him.





	Five Kisses For Victor

**Author's Note:**

> Written quite some time ago for the Soft Viktor Zine, Kamome, which I was honored to be invited to participate in.

The cold in St. Petersburg sets in early, but doesn’t really sink its claws into the city, freezing water lines and etching delicate whorls of frost onto the insides of windows, until January, when the world turns twilight, the sky dimming to a crystalline rosy sunset at quarter past five in the afternoon.

Victor Nikiforov is twelve years old,  body steeped in cold from the moment he wakes until the time he sleeps; it’s settled into his soul so deeply he wonders if his platinum hair is a gift from the witch who bestowed the talent of twisting his body into complex and beautiful poses on the ice, a reminder that no matter where he goes the ice will never leave him. He considers dyeing his hair red, once, in a fit of rebellion because it’s always cold, it’s always white, and his chilly demeanor has given him the nickname “Ice Princess” whenever he’s in the locker room after practice.

He doesn’t care. He can’t. He’s  growing into a man, old enough to be sent from his parent’s house to live with Yakov Feltsman and Lilia Baranovskaya.If the chilliness that’s come to define his every waking moment stops his words and leaves him silent and sullen it doesn’t show in his skating, which is crystalline and perfect. Hard, like a diamond, beautiful and pure. And that’s all he thinks he needs.

Until the day he sits  at the breakfast table and Yakov opens the door holding a small, wriggling furry bundle which yips and yaps and wiggles and generally makes himself  a nightmare  to be held until Yakov puts him on the floor,. “Your parents bought him for you,” Yakov explains. “He’s yours. You must care for him. Lilia is accepting under protest, and this is her condition.”

Victor promptly drops to his knees to put out a gentle hand.Bright brown eyes look into his blue ones. The puppy is small, a coffee-colored poodle, and his wild curls are going every which way. He tries to bound over to Victor but trips over his own bumbling feet and sprawls onto his belly on the floor. Victor gets down on his stomach and touches his nose to the puppy’s.

“Makkachin,” he breathes, and the newly named pup  sticks out a small pink tongue to lick Victor on the cheek.

He giggles, and the sound encourages the pup to do it again, and again, attacking his face with a hundred little puppy kisses that leave him gasping and laughing, the sound is foreign in his throat.

The warmth that bathes his face is foreign too, and the ice begins to melt, just a tiny bit.

    *~*~ *~*

Victor thaws enough that two years later when he steps across the rink barrier and slides his guards on a call of “Hey, Victor,” it is friendly instead of the start of an insult.. It’s Semyon, a boy Victor has known for years now.

Semyon is tall and lanky, almost too much so, as it gives him trouble to control those long, lean limbs and bend them to something close to artistry. He’s also got a cloud of soft-looking black hair and shockingly bright blue eyes, something Victor can’t seem to look away from no matter how many times he’s caught staring.

“You have a minute?” Semyon asks, and Victor’s heart starts to jump in his chest. They’ve spoken many times, eaten meals together, but nothing ever quite caused him to feel like this.

Victor rubs a hand across his breastbone and tries to breathe normally through his nose.  “Sure,” he says.

“Meet me in Studio eight, okay? Give me five minutes head start.”

Victor nods, counts off five minutes , and follows Semyon to the part of the massive complex that contains the dance studios. The hallway is dark, quiet, and abandoned this close to the end of the day, and Victor quietly opens the door to Studio eight. The room has a single lamp turned on in the corner. Semyon is perched on a pile of mats, legs crossed, eyes bright. Victor tugs self-consciously on the t-shirt covering his leotard.

“Hey,” Semyon says, and hops down to walk up to Victor. “I’m sort of. Ah. Look, I just wanted to talk to you a minute without anyone around.”

Victor nods, wary. “Okay. What’s going on?”

Semyon’s eyes glow in the low lamplight, and before Victor can process exactly what’s going on, Semyon leans forward and presses his mouth to Victor’s; simple, chaste, a sweet touch of lips to lips. Victor squeaks and jumps back, hands fisted at his sides.

“What was that?” he asks, and he hopes the tremble in his voice isn’t as noticeable as it seems to him.

Semyon blushes and looks down at the floor. “Ah. Well. I just. You’re so beautiful, Victor, and I thought maybe…but maybe I’m wrong?”

Victor’s heart is hammering, shuddering wildly in his chest now, and the warmth of Semyon’s mouth on his is spreading down his arms to his fingertips. He stops and considers carefully, licking his lips.

“No, you’re not wrong,” Victor says, then pulls Semyon in to chase that feeling all the way down to his toes.

 *~*~ *~*

After Semyon is Sergi the hockey player,, and after Sergi is Mikail, a 26 year old Latvian ski instructor that Victor might fall in love with, just a little bit. They’re all sweet and kind and dote on Victor, probably more than they honestly should. But not a single one of them lights a fire in his soul, not one leaves him longing for more than an indulgent encounter in a dorm or a hotel once in a while. None of them makes him _want,_ and shouldn’t they?

That is, until his first go at Rostelecom, assigned at age 20. He’s done all the others but it’s his first bite at this particular apple, and as he shrugs off his jacket rinkside and prepares to warm up for his short program, he feels a hand curl around his hip.

“My God, don’t you look like a man,” a voice purrs in his ear.It turns out to be Christophe Giacometti, all of 18 and his curls tickle Victor’s neck. “I’d heard you cut your hair but all the pap pictures were so blurry. Turn around and let me get a good look.”

Chris studies him, one finger tapping his full lower lip. He’s filled out a lot since Victor saw him last, and Victor feels a strange pull behind his belly button. Chris, who Victor’s known since he was 17, who seemed like such a pure innocent child in Victor’s eyes. Who’s looking at him like now like he wants to devour him.

“Let’s meet in my room later,” Chris suggests, with half-lidded eyes. “We’ll watch a movie and catch up.”  Victor, feeling slightly fuzzy around the edges, agrees.

He barely remembers his short program. He is probably in first or second, given the base scores he put together, but once he’s in Chris’ room and sitting on the bed  all he can feel is the way Chris’ fingers on his wrist burn like a brand.

“Let me kiss you, you maddening creature,” Chris whispers in his ear, and oh, when Chris’ lips meet his it razes Victor to ash. Fire and need and desire singing through his veins like nothing he’s ever experienced, the rising ache of lust hitting him like a tidal wave. He’s got no reference for this, no way to call back to a previous experience to know how to cope. He simply fists his hands in the sheets and closes his eyes and begs for it to never end, for Chris’s mouth to move against his forever, his tongue to trace the seam of his mouth until his lips part and then to taste, and taste, and taste until his lips are red and wet and stinging.

“I’ve never known it could feel like—” Victor breathes against Chris’ skin.

Chris drags his lips down the column of Victor’s neck. “Eros. Pleasure upon pleasure, Victor. Let me show you.”

Victor does, and lets himself drown in it.

 *~*~ *~*

If skater’s hearts are as fragile as glass, Victor is watching his own explode into thousands of tiny shards that scatter like the ice that leaps from the edge of Yuuri Katsuki’s blade when it snags the surface after four rotations of an improbable quadruple flip, unexpected and unpracticed. Yuuri ends up sprawled on his hip for barely an instant  before he gets up and skates away as if he hasn’t just rewritten Victor’s entire life in less than a second. But he has.

Yuuri Katsuki has been the most unlikely,  impossible thing that Victor has ever experienced in his 27 years, and the wonder of it all is that no matter what he just keeps surprising Victor: with his strength, his stamina, his kindness, his determination, his trust, his talent, his skill. His love.

And that’s what this was, a declaration of his devotion to Victor writ large for the world to see. Louder than a press conference, more clear than a gold medal.

“I love you,” in the clear, sparkling spray of ice from a blade, and Victor is helpless before it.

“Victor,” Yuuri calls out as he dashes for the barrier, smile wide and open and ecstatic. “I did great, right?”

Victor can’t help but smile in return, because if he opens his mouth he might burst into helpless tears of joy. So instead he leaps for Yuuri at the first opportunity and sends them both sprawling  to the ice, his mouth firmly pressed to Yuuri’s in a kiss so clear in it’s intent, so unmistakable, that Yuuri’s eyes soften at the edges with understanding, crinkle at the corners with fondness.

“I love you,”  clear in the chill of Yuuri’s lips against his, the long, lean line of their bodies, together, ready to create heat. 

“I love you,” so blazingly hot it melts the shattered pieces of what they’d broken with fumbled words and imperfect understanding and reforges something stronger, something shared.

Something new.

 *~*~ *~*

It’s entirely possible Victor has never been this hot in his entire life.

It’s sakura season in Japan, but the weather, instead of the fresh snowfall of his first trip to Hasetsu, it has decided to be just as freakishly opposite and be blisteringly hot instead. He’s wearing a  black and grey formal hakama and it itches along his neck, sweat is pooling at the dip of his throat, and Yuri Plisetsky keeps swatting his hands away with a hiss every time he tries to adjust his obi so his skin can breathe, just a bit.

“I swear to God you’d better stop touching that or I will set Baba Mila on you,” he whispers. “I’ve tied  it twice already so knock it off.”

Victor stills his hands. It’s gorgeous at the temple, the roar of the waterfall providing a background of sound that shrouds the small, simple ceremony in a veil of solitude. No press, no cameras, no strangers. Family, and friends, and Yuuri.

Yuuri, in a gorgeous black pinstripe hakama, who is handing him a bright red cup with gold flowers, filled with sake for him to sip.

Who is looking at him with soft eyes as they hand each other their rings, taken off just this morning and left in the care of Chris and Yuri. 

Who pledges unchanging trust and eternal affection after Victor does the same, to the cheers and applause from their families.

Yuuri then steps up to Victor after the priest declares the ceremony successful, and Victor’s heart is in his throat. He reaches out with trembling fingers to slip them  over the curve of Yuuri’s jaw. He leans forward, just slightly, ready for what no doubt will be a soft, gentle, kiss, appropriate for their surroundings.

What he gets is Yuuri wrapping one arm around his waist,  the other around the back of his neck and  Yuuri dips him backward, graceful and swift.,  Victor is helpless but to follow his lead. He wraps his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders and gets one quick view of a smirk before Yuuri’s mouth descends to his, kissing him thoroughly, openly, in a way that Victor has _never_ been kissed before.

 It’s every kiss Victor has ever had, all at once. Agape, eros. Discovery. Love and the  burning flame  of eternity, seared into his heart like a brand. He can’t help but smile against his husband’s lips, sweat dripping like melting ice  from the ends of his platinum hair in this tiny little seaside town. Because despite the coming winters, despite the  future on the ice they both share, he  knows he’ll never be cold again.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
